


Mornings After

by TigerDragon



Series: The Girls In Question [10]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Hangover, Implied Sexual Content, Post Season 7, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 16:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TigerDragon/pseuds/TigerDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world didn't (quite) end, and the world changed. There's a new order of things, a new day dawning... a general theme of newness, in fact, but some people are still living with history. Buffy Summers and Faith Lehane are two of them.</p><p>Three times in three weeks after the world didn't end, three wake-up calls shake things up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mornings After

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, all. Usual disclaimers apply - we own none of this, and we've promised Joss to put his toys back when we're done. This is our first fic set after Season 7, so this is where the rules of the road change a little - we're chucking the Season 8 comics out the window entirely and starting over with a blank sheet of paper from the events of "Chosen." We hope you enjoy the ride - we've certainly enjoyed writing it.
> 
> And yes, if anyone's curious, we may go back and fill in a couple of gaps in the timeline before this at some point - there's a car ride from L.A. I'm dying to write, for one thing. But for now, we're forging ahead and seeing where it takes us.
> 
> As you'll probably be able to tell, the first scene of this fic picks up the day after "Chosen" (Season 7's finale).

Apocalypse or no apocalypse, there was really only so long you could keep a bus full of teenage girls on the road - especially if those teenage girls had newly acquired superpowers, were coming off a solid half-year or more of terrorized prey status and a bit over a week of more coups and counter-coups than a Latin American ‘republic’ in a really bad year. Not to mention the unspeakable amount of soda, coffee and tea they’d consumed. Or, again, the howling terror.  
  
On the whole, three hours to a second-rate little hotel outside Monterey was doing pretty well. Faith Lehane, for her part, had spent most of the drive semi-conscious and barely remembered stumbling her way into bed in one of the eight or so rented rooms they split up between them. Waking up in the morning to find herself alone in said bed was actually a bit of a surprise, truth be told - either she’d earned more cred with the group than she thought, what with the final battle and all, or nobody except Robin (who they’d dropped off at the first hospital they’d passed - probably her idea, though she didn’t really remember) trusted her to sleep next to them.  
  
She knew which one of those she was betting on.  
  
“The road to redemption is a rocky one,” she quoted to herself wryly, then snorted. Angel’d missed a hell of a brawl, and if she lived long enough to see him again she’d have to tell him about it. Followed by giving him some friendly hell about it, of course, because that was just how things were meant to go. Assuming she didn’t turn herself in and sign up for a few more years in SuperMax, anyway. She hadn’t ruled that out, either.  
  
Sun was leaking through the windows, which made it some time of day. At least eight hours of sleep, then - that was more than she usually needed, but she wasn’t going to complain. Beggars, choosers, all that shit. She settled for a quick shower instead, and even if she didn’t have a fresh set of clothes she sure as hell felt more human.  
  
Human. She thought about old men in the desert, a young girl and a demon, then shook her head to drive off the ache in her throat. Human, sure. Right. That was just what she was.  
  
What every girl out there with the right potential in her veins was, now. Sure, win the battle and shake things up - like most things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. The day after, cold light of morning... she wasn’t so sure.  
  
_Fuck it,_ she told herself with a little more emphasis than she should have needed, _Buffy’ll figure it out. She always does._ Her stomach rumbled, and she finally found a laugh. _Weighty concerns on the fate of the world, later. Food now._  
  
There was probably supposed to be an end to the complimentary breakfast thing, but somehow nobody on the hotel staff had quite got up the nerve to tell the strange British gentleman and his entourage of bruised, cut-up and hard-eyed young women that. The bagels, cereal, fruit and coffee - not to mention the waffle iron and batter to match - were still abundantly laid out around three in the afternoon when Faith made her less-than-grand entrance. Giles, over in one of the high-backed chairs, was half-asleep over what looked like a cheap paperback but was probably some crazy magical tome he’d shoved in his back pocket. A half-dozen of the surviving Potentials - except they were Slayers now, weren’t they? - were spread over the lobby around the TV in varying states of torpor while Cincinnati got creamed by San Francisco. Faith felt a smile start on her lips, and then guilt dug its claws in again. _Might be a few more of them here to catch an afternoon nap if it weren’t for you, Lehane. Least you didn’t have to be carried out of this fight, right?_  
  
She sat down to try to shake it off, and wound up with her hands shaking instead. She hadn’t figured herself for this torn up, but now that the stress was off she was about ready to start crying like a baby - not even two weeks out of jail, and she’d got herself nearly killed skull-diving Angel’s head and then found herself in-fucking-charge when Buffy took a well-provoked hike, and then gotten some stupid pretty young things killed because she’d gone charging in with her balls instead of her brains....  
  
“Waffles and eggs, Captain. Crunchy oats, too.”  
  
Kennedy’s posh New York accent might still make her knuckles itch, but it broke through her incoming breakdown just fine and snapped her upright on pure reflex - you didn’t show your weakness in front of the younger girls, that just wasn’t how it was done. Slayer instinct and Boston blue-collar, they at least agreed on that. So she took the food and tried on a smile at the nickname - title? in-joke? - Kennedy had never quite dropped after the first time Faith had laid down the law. “Great. I could eat a horse. How’re the troops?”  
  
“Shattered,” Willow’s new girl replied with a smile of her own that was way too cheerful for somebody who’d just lived through the fight of her life. _Apparently Miss Glinda slept enough on the ride down to show some love,_ the back of Faith’s mind noted nastily. She stepped on that and let Kennedy go on, though, which was probably all to the good. At least somebody didn’t hate her guts, even if it was the stuck-up rich girl. “Everybody slept like...” Kennedy stopped, her voice cracking, and the good cheer drained out of her face as the rest of the words she’d been about to say caught out with her.  
  
“Hey.” Faith didn’t know why she reached out and wrapped her hand around the younger girl’s wrist, but she did. Maybe it was just Slayer instinct again, but she didn’t think so. Hunt-kill-breed didn’t have much room for taking care of each other. “You did good, and so did they. We lost people, and that hurts like hell, but we gotta keep moving. Keep our eyes on what’s next, you know? You can’t dwell. Trust me.”  
  
The girl just nodded, squeezing Faith’s wrist in return, and her eyes said _I do_ loud enough to make Faith’s breath just about stop. _Shit,_ she thought, fighting to keep her face steady, _she really does think she’s your squire or something. Better tell her otherwise, Lehane, or...._  
  
She didn’t finish the thought, and she didn’t try talking just yet either. Some things were just going to have to wait until after breakfast, at least.  
  
“Willow’s still sleeping,” Kennedy finally piped up right about the time that Faith was finishing her second plate of waffles. “I haven’t seen Buffy yet, either. Guess she’s still in her room.” Her voice did a pretty good job of playing casual, really, but her eyes gave her away again. That was the thing about faces - unless you really know what you were doing, the lie tended to leak out that way. _Disappointed and scared,_ Faith’s instincts told her. _Looking for the Boss to come down and sort everything out._  
  
“She fought more and harder than the rest of us, plus she’s got a big-ass stab wound to sleep off.” _When,_ she asked herself rhetorically, _did I become morale officer for the Army of Slayers? Before or after I took them to drinks?_   She knocked back her orange juice and got up, ignoring the rush of blood to her head that make her knees try to buckle. Sleep or not, she wasn’t anything like full strength. “I’ll check in on her, but you tell the girls it’ll be fine when they’re awake enough to hear it. Bad guys got buried under a ton of rock, remember? We’re five by five, no question.”  
  
“I will,” Kennedy promised, and damned if she didn’t look cheered up as a kid with her parents home. Faith kept the same confident smile on her face all the way to the elevator, including the two necessary stops in the lobby, and let the doors close for good measure before she slumped against the wall. _How,_ she asked the girl in the polished metal door, _did you ever let yourself get dragged into this again?_  
  
Like usual, her reflection didn’t say a thing. _Bitch._  
  
Finding Buffy’s room was as much instinct as memory, but this close she could practically smell her. Well, not physically - though Angel could do that, and that had been a really _creepy_ realization when she’d hit on the fact that he had to have been able to smell her on Buffy the whole time they were making eyes at each other. It didn’t make it any harder to find the room, and the spare key she’d lifted off Dawn - who was curled up next to Vi and Rona on one of the couches with a level of comfort into which she was so not reading anything - worked just fine. She’d just check in, she promised herself silently, and then she’d go back downstairs and tell the girls everything was fine and that they should all just chill until the Slayer-in-Charge came down to tell them....  
  
Her heart stopped. Well, technically, it was probably her brain that stopped and it just _felt_ like her heart stopping, but she was so far past thinking about technically at this moment that the distinction mattered about as much to her as the size of craters on the moon because Buffy was curled up in the bed in front of her, gold hair spilled out on the pillows and eyes closed in sleep, and how the _hell_ had she ever forgotten how beautiful Buffy Summers asleep was? She stood there with her jaw hanging open like an idiot, heart still stopped or maybe hammering or maybe both for all she knew, and suddenly four years and a few hundred miles and more blood and horror than she could bear to think about were just _gone_ like so much mist because Buffy Summers was laid out in front of her asleep and she was too scared to even breathe because the moment might just vanish into thin air.  
  
Some tiny something must have penetrated Buffy’s sleep--a change in the air pressure, the smell of the hotel conditioner Faith had used not two hours ago, the other Slayer’s weight sending minute vibrations through the floor and mattress--because in the lack of a few heartbeats that Faith stood there, the girl she had so much history with began to stretch under the covers like a cat, eyes still closed. _Not fair._ Even under the muffling of blankets, there was enough definition to Buffy’s body to stir a whole number of thoughts that were so very much not on the table. Definitely not. Even if she _did_ suddenly feel a hell of a lot less tired.  
  
Breaking into Faith’s turmoil, Buffy hissed. “Ow, dammit.” She must have stretched too far and pulled at her wound.  
  
“Ow.” She curled back into herself, opening her eyes into a squint. “Hey.” The look on her face said that everything in the world that wasn’t sleep, food, or opiate pain-killers had better have a damn good reason for bothering her.  “Everything okay with the troops?”  
  
“Zoned out in front of the TV, mostly. Rumblings of worry, but I told them to chill.” Suddenly, for reasons she couldn’t have explained to anyone - much less herself - the most important thing Faith could think of was reassuring Buffy she didn’t have to get out of bed if she didn’t want to. “Said I’d come up and make sure you were still among the breathing and all, just to make sure they didn’t have to freak about it.” Without being asked, or even really thinking about it, she grabbed the ice bucket and some tap water to throw together a cup and carry it over to the bed. _Yeah,_ the whisper of her conscience mocked her, _like that’s going to help. Here’s a cup of cold water, and sorry for all the trying to kill your loved ones, and letting your army kick you out of your house to appoint me boss, and then getting some of them blown up, and **then** letting you get stabbed. Not to mention the whole letting you stay behind to hold dead-boy’s hand because stupid duty things like getting the bus moving before it wound up buried in the Hellmouth couldn’t wait. But hey, water. All good, right? _  
  
_Shut up,_ she told herself, and handed the water over with what was probably the least natural smile ever. “You look better, B.” _Casual. Yeah, sure. I’m all about the casual now._  
  
Buffy gave the smile a sideways look, but gingerly pulled herself up into a half-seated recline without saying anything. “Well, I’m not bleeding at an alarming rate anymore. So that’s progress, I guess.” She took the water and gulped it down. “Mmm, hydration. Thanks.”  
  
For a moment, she sat staring at the plastic cup, a pensive look on her face. Then, in what was still a complete surprise to Faith (even though she should really have stopped being surprised at how often Buffy was surprising by now) she laughed around a wince.  “TV. I honestly don’t remember the last time I watched TV, except to see if the news was covering our apocalpyses. Apocalpsi? Thingy.” She looked up at Faith with... something-face. “The little things survived.”  
  
“Guess so.” Faith fought down the impulse to look away, because something inside her hurt that she couldn’t reach to slap a bandage on. _Little things like TV, waffles and shopping with your friends - that’s what she’s going to say, and she’s going to be right, and if it doesn’t apply to you then so fucking what? You did what you did, and your time is never up - you pay for everything, remember? So suck it up._  
  
Buffy rolled her shoulders experimentally. No wincing, that must be a good sign. “Your hair smells good,” she murmured with her eyes closed. Then, sitting still, she opened her eyes with an uneasy look on her face. “Uh. Good hotel shampoo is pretty unusual, or so I hear and....I am choosing to ignore that I said any of that. What time is it?” In some sort of weird defense mechanism, Buffy’s perkiness had come fully online, trying to dispel by sheer cheerfulness the baggage she’d just brought up.  
  
“Three-ish. Breakfast is still on downstairs, though - think they figure we might burn the place down if they don’t keep us fed.” Faith gave it a beat, then tried a joke. “They’re probably right, huh?”  
  
Something glinted in Buffy’s eyes and Faith wasn’t sure if it was mirth or deadly determination. “Getting between a Slayer and her meal is a bad idea. Getting between a dozen Slayers and their food? Grounds for serious property damage.”  She grinned, slowly getting her legs over the edge of the bed. “If I fall down or start gushing blood again, just give me a pillow to hold and bring up some grub. I’m starving.”  
  
“Don’t you dare,” Faith whispered through her teeth, then managed to smile through the sudden rush of fear and pain at the thought. “I’d have to explain to Giles, and he’d give me his Very Disappointed Look, so don’t even think about it.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” Frowning at her feet, Buffy gestured Faith closer. “Here, gimme your arm. Just in case.” A step closer, her arm slid around the blonde’s shoulders, and strangely Faith didn’t have to exert willpower to avoid impure thoughts, because making sure that Buffy could stand up with as little pain and damage as possible was the most important thing at the moment and anything else simply didn’t rate.  
  
There was a small hiss from Buffy as she rose to her feet, but once there she could support her own weight. Faith didn’t let go of her, though - which was totally solicitude for the nasty stab wound in Buffy’s torso and in no way an attempt to play overprotective girlfriend. Boyfriend. Whatever. After the first few steps, Faith felt reasonably sure that the blonde could locomote safely.  
  
“Yay, walking. Walking will bring me to food. I like this plan.”  
  
“Shoes?”    
  
Smiling, Buffy did what she’d been wanting to do for a long, long time. “Fuck ‘em,” she dismissed cheerfully. “If they’ll keep breakfast out this late they’ll let me go barefoot.”  
  
In spite of everything, Faith laughed. “Buffy Summers says fuck the rules. This was totally worth blowing up a town to see.”  
  
Padding to the elevator, Buffy gave another pained laugh. “God, I am _so_ glad to never see that place again.” She leaned against the rail as they descended. “That was seriously cathartic. They should tell you about that in therapy.”  
  
“It’s called destructive purging, I think. Something like that.” Faith chuckled, held Buffy’s hand a little tighter against her own arm and tried very, very hard not to support more of the other girl’s weight than was really necessary. “One of my therapists mentioned it a few times.”  
  
Walking slowly around the corner, the girls crossed from the hallway into the lobby and over to the breakfast counter.  The new Slayers perked up a little at their presence, and Buffy was gracious if cool, smiling at everyone but stopping for none. Faith was gauging their reactions, weighing their moods and filing it away to calculate later. Which, it belatedly struck her, she’d somehow already decided there was going to be. Later. No trip back to jail, no nice quiet cell, no rumble off into the sunset on whatever bike or car she could steal. Unless and until somebody (Buffy, probably) decided to throw her out the door, she was staying. Before her conscience - or what was passing for it - could pipe up again, she slapped it down. _Not ‘cause I deserve it. Because they need me, at least until B’s back on her feet all the way. Maybe after - she’s not so good with keeping the troops in line, more the big-picture thinker. Maybe something I can help with._ That pushed another breath out of her, shaky with the weight of the whole idea, but she kept a smile on her face and threw Kennedy - who’d been busy talking the other girls down out of whatever limp panic they might have been managing to work up at the moment - a reassuring nod. _Maybe._  
  
She only realized that they’d reached the food when Buffy stopped them both abruptly enough to almost land them on the floor in front of everybody. _Thank God for Slayer reflexes._  
  
Buffy clearly had larger things on her mind than the possibility of falling on her ass. “Ooh, waffles!”  
  
“You want me to throw some together for you, B?” Even in front of the girls, the words came out quiet and private. She was pretty sure if B threw her a what-the-hell, she was going to blush herself to death. Fortunately or unfortunately, Buffy blew right past her existential crisis in favor of instant fascination with the waffle-maker.  
  
“No, I want to do the twisty-flippy thing! At least once,” she amended, leaning slightly on the counter. “You flip it, and it makes delicious food, and kills presumably nothing. I like it.” A cup of batter already in her free hand, she nodded authoritatively. “Yup. Good, benign waffle iron.” She gave the handle an affectionate pat.  
  
“Don’t let her name it,” Dawn called sleepily from the couch, “or she’ll make us take it with us.”  
  
With a mischievously speculative expression pointed straight at Faith, Buffy poured the batter in and set the maker going. “I’m thinking Bob or Francoise.”  
  
“Definitely a Dale, B. Or maybe a John.” Faith gave as good as she got, and felt a grin start tugging at her lips.  
  
“We could probably afford to buy one, but damn if I don’t feel just the tiniest bit entitled. Saved their bacon, after all. Mmm, bacon.”  
  
“B, if you want the damn waffle iron, I’ll fucking jack it for you here and now.” Faith leaned over and filled a fresh cup of coffee, just to do something with her hands, because as tempting as it was she was _not_ going to kiss Buffy Summers and get slapped for it today. Maybe tomorrow. “I’ll even steal you a whole brick of bacon to go with it.”  
  
That got her a small if genuine smile. “Not now. We wouldn’t have waffles tomorrow.”  
  
“Five by five, B.” Faith smiled back, sipped her coffee, and closed her eyes to keep the tears she couldn’t have explained to anyone else from escaping down her cheeks. “Lemme know if you change your mind.”

* * *

  
From one moment to the next, Buffy crossed the line between oblivion and consciousness, though she kept her eyes closed. She wasn’t sure it was even full consciousness, or if she was lying in a pain-haze in some hospital, crypt or ritual-sacrifice site.  
  
Someone was whacking her head with Olaf’s hammer. From the inside. Maybe the troll had somehow been made tiny and magically transported inside her skull.  
  
She tried to swallow, finding her mouth dry and tasting horrible. She was lying on...something dry, at least. What the hell had happened? Slowly, being careful not to think too quickly lest the hammering intensify, she tried to remember how she’d gotten this way.  
  
Her sluggish brain wasn’t helping. She probably needed some clues. That would involve opening her eyes.  
  
Damn.  
  
Taking a deep, careful breath, Buffy squinted her eyes open.  Thankfully, the room was darkened by drawn curtains--even the rays of sunlight seeping from the edges hurt to look at. Slowly, it became apparent that she was in a Cardiff hotel room. Whether or not she was under the effects of some painful occult ritual was still in question, but at least she was warm and dry.  
  
Cardiff. The girls. Last night...  
  
_Maybe she should have given it more than four days before she made a decision, but Buffy did not like Wales. The air and land were both soggy, the food seemed carefully designed to give you a heart attack before you were forty (except for the ‘seafood’ that looked like it should go on her To Slay list), she couldn’t drive anywhere on the backwards roads, and the public transportation didn’t help because it seemed to be full of cranky old people who didn’t care if the buses left half an hour late, how DARE you interrupt the driver’s long personal phone call, you pushy American!  
  
On second thought, the girl from California decided that she’d been generous.  
  
Thus it was that she found herself dancing and drinking like a maniac in the most popular (of five) nightclubs in town. She was going to have a good time, dammit, and if it took her and her fellow Slayers a whole bar’s worth of alcohol to do it, that was okay. _  
  
Crap. Ow. Ow ow ow. Crap.  
  
A hangover? She’d never gotten a hangover before. The few times she’d drunk, it had been one or two drinks, nothing her Slayer metabolism couldn’t handle, snake-demon roofies or cave-person hexes aside. Apparently she did, in fact, have limits.  
  
The bed shifted, and an unholy sound that made her brain try to crawl down her throat got a little bit louder. What the hell was it?  
  
Oh. Fuck. Breathing. Not hers.  
  
_The girls were saved. They were safeish, even. And now they were close to where they were going to set up camp, once Giles and Willow made arrangements with the local coven.  
  
It was a weight off Buffy’s shoulders. She felt so light it seemed like the wind would blow her away like dandelion fluff. She hadn’t felt like that in years.  
  
Since becoming the Slayer?  
  
Be quiet, existential angst. Less thinky, more drinky.  
  
The booze melted her more personal anxieties away. She wasn’t worried about what she looked like or if she would say something stupid. The world, for once, could wait.  
  
She’d been dancing for a while--she wasn’t sure how long--when Faith shimmied up close on the dance floor. Apparently, singing country-western at the top of her lungs while sitting on the bar pouring drinks had finally lost its appeal.  
  
That was just fine with Buffy, though, because Faith was still a boy’s wet dream when she danced - hell, more like anyone’s - and they might have tried to kill each other but they hadn’t lost their groove. Fighting, dancing, fucking, it didn’t matter; they moved like one mind in two bodies, and for once the whole world had the sense to get the hell out of their way. _  
  
So there was dancing. Alone slash with random people at the club, and with Faith.  
  
Buffy tried to get her body into formation. Her arms and legs still seemed to work fine, but she gave it a fifty-fifty chance that her head would explode when she moved it.  
  
Turning happened. Her head did not explode, though the hammering got pretty intense for a moment. She was successfully facing the opposite direction, staring, as she had half-suspected, at Faith’s tangle of dark hair. The other girl’s back was to her, chest slowly rising and falling with each breath.  
  
Okay. She was in bed with Faith in a hotel room. Not the end of the world. Kind of nice, while reality was helpfully not intruding into her poor, poor skull. It felt right to be next to the other Slayer again, right that they could still trust each other with their unguarded sleep, even if it did take a lot of booze for them to get over themselves.  
  
Buffy enjoyed the view for a while longer: the darkness of Faith’s hair against her creamy pale skin, the hard-cut muscle half-hidden under the thin hotel sheet, the generous curve of her throat that would feel absolutely delicious against her mouth if she just.... no, bad, very bad, none of that.  
  
Huh. She couldn’t see much of Faith, but the parts that she could see were all bare.  
  
Crap.  
  
Was Faith naked? Buffy couldn’t tell from where she was, and she wasn’t about to move or wake her bed partner. Helpfully, her vision took that moment to register the bits of clothing that were spread haphazard around the room--Faith’s leather pants tossed over the back of a chair, a shirt draped over the bedside lamp. It was odd, though, because it didn’t look like something the other Slayer would wear. Too soft.  
  
Crap.  
  
Was _Buffy_ naked?  
  
Naked would mean sex, her molasses brain informed her. Clothed would indicate no sex or, at most, dry humping. The first eventuality would be the hardest to deal with.  
  
She wiggled her toes, shifted her body slightly, and brought cold fingers up to her chest to investigate. Her findings indicated that she was in her underwear, which was frustratingly  inconclusive.  
  
She had bruises, a more thorough check informed her. Bruises were bad, but bad in different flavors - big nasty bruises around her ribs and shoulders would mean punching and fighting and a big bill from the club for damages, little sensitive bruises on her throat and chest and hips would mean robust and potentially awkward happy fun times with another Slayer. Like, say, Faith.  
  
Rib-poke number one: No brusing. Rib-poke number two: No brusing. Rib-pokes three through nine: Also no bruising. Rib-poke ten: a small bruise. So...maybe a minor damages bill?  
  
_“What do you mean, there’s no more? You’re cutting me off?”  
  
The barkeep shook his long-suffering head. “No, miss. I mean that you and your friends have cleaned us out. We appreciate your business, but now we have to close, as there’s no more drink, and a dry pub would break my regulars’ hearts. So go. Home.”  
  
“Oh. Um, okay. Bye.”  She’d called to the girls, rounding them up and dragging them out the front door in twos and threes. A few were argumentative in their drunken state, and Rona ‘accidentally’ landed a punch on her ribs.  
  
After that, it seemed like it would probably be best for everyone if they went back to the hotel, ate something, and generally engaged in sobering activities. She was planning on a bath and lots and lots of mineral water. _  
  
Right. One punch, not Faith. Buffy could continue poking herself, but a mirror would be easier. The evidence seemed to be in favor of unprofessional sexiness, anyway.  
  
Unfortunately, further assessing and/or escaping the situation would require walking, and that would require getting up. Buffy’s already abused brain recoiled at the idea.  
  
_You think that’s bad, brain? How about the conversation we’ll have to have if we stay long enough for Faith to wake up? No? I thought so._  
  
With another feat of coordination, Buffy rolled over to face the edge of the bed again. She took a minute to get her brain back to bearable levels of pain.  
  
Taking calming breaths, she started to inch her legs off the mattress, aiming to get into a seated position within a minute or so. Getting her head upright was going to be a bitch, but then she could go and do things to make it better, like get re-hydrated, swallow some Vicodin, and beg Willow for a magical hangover cure.  
  
She made it about half the way to vertical before Faith’s arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist with the emphatic, sleep-drenched possessiveness of the semi-conscious.  
  
“Crap.”  
  
With a pained yet dejected squint, Buffy contemplated the arm holding her back. A moment later, she grasped it with both hands, hoping to pry it off before Faith woke up all the way.  
  
That hope got smashed in about two seconds.  
  
“Ugh. Fucking hangovers.” Faith winced, practically audibly, and her arm tightened around Buffy until the smaller girl was dragged practically on top of her. “You’re cramping my style, B - I thought sneaking out in the morning was supposed to be my gig.”  
  
“Ow,” Buffy whimpered as the movement sent her jabs of white pain into her head. “Ow ow ow. And fucking ow.” A hand to her temple, she was distantly aware of Faith’s warm skin pressed against hers, and glad that it was pleasant enough to distract from her headache but not so compelling as to be frustrating. “I am never, ever drinking again.”  
  
“I promise that all the time. It never works.” Faith’s arms slid around her fully, strong fingers sliding up under her palm to press at the ache in her temples, working the pain away in slow circles that seemed to resonate all the way through her head. “Guess you’re not used to this kinda thing, Miss Prim and Proper?” The old jibe was gentle, now - almost tender.  
  
“I blame Wales. California booze never did this to me.” The pain was fading, and Buffy found herself relaxing into Faith. Maybe as long as they didn’t talk about it, things would be okay.  
  
Faith breathed a skeptical chuckle into her hair. “Uh-huh.”  
  
“Prim and proper, psssht,” Buffy continued, eyes closed, leaning into rough fingers.  “I am so _done_ with being sensible. As of last night, I’m taking a vacation from responsibility.”  
  
“Jesus,” Faith laughed breathlessly, “did the world end when I wasn’t looking?”  
  
Her lips touched the back of Buffy’s neck, and the pain-easing pressure of those fingertips dug a little deeper into the skin of Buffy’s temples. It set dull shivers running up and down Buffy’s body, and the combination of lingering hangover and endorphins made the room do a few slow, lazy spins around her.  
  
“Is it normal for the room to go in circles?” she murmured, sliding closer to Faith. “I think the point is that it didn’t. I know there’s lots to do still--Slayers to train, things to slay--but... last night, nobody needed me to be strong.”  
  
Faith’s hands finally slid away from her distinctly less-throbby temples, and strong arms pulled her down into an embrace that was as familiar in its comfort as it was thorny with memories. “Whole world full of Slayers, B. Figure it can probably spare you for a night or three.”  
  
When Buffy smiled, it was into Faith’s hair. “Or...hmm. Maybe three hundred and sixty five?” She slipped her fingers into a dark curl, smoothing it in her hand.  
  
“Maybe,” Faith murmured, her voice suddenly soft. Not tight, exactly, but alert. Hangover or not, the mind behind those dark eyes was thinking hard. “You thinking about running?”  
  
“I’m thinking about a break. A really long vacation--what do you call those? Sabba-thingy.”  
  
When there was no response, Buffy shifted and looked at her once and maybe future lover’s face. “I’m coming back. I’d miss everyone too much to stay away forever, or even, like, five years. I’m thinking two, tops.”  
  
Faiths eyes were very dark and very serious, almost unreadable, but her voice was raw vulnerability compressed into something trying to sound tough. “B, if this is about last night, you know you just have to ask and I’ll...”  
  
Perhaps bolstered by the prospect of having a long time to think and not-think, as the case might be, Buffy leaned in to press her lips to Faith’s. She kept it close-mouthed because making out would be very problematic at the moment. Also, hangover breath.  
  
After they were both quiet for a while, she pulled away again. “It’s about the last seven years of my life, Faith.” She sighed, and felt the old weariness push her down again. “Last night has a lot of awkward implications, but I’m not running from you. I really need to be just a girl in the world for a while.” Her hand found Faith’s and gave it a squeeze.  
  
After a long heartbeat, Faith squeezed back. They were silent for another minute, then two, studying each other’s eyes.  
  
Finally, Faith spoke up again in a whisper that sounded like it was trying to choke her. “I can’t go with you, either. The girls, what Giles was talking about with a new Council or something... even if all of that didn’t need me, I got too much to work off to just take off. I knew I wasn’t finished paying back when I busted out to help Angel, but damn - here I am, Little Miss Loner, and I’m telling you I can’t go bum around the world on a bike ‘cause I gotta stay and be responsible. What the _fuck_ , B?” The last wasn’t angry, wasn’t an accusation - the way it came out, it was practically plaintive.  
  
“Well.” Buffy’s gaze traveled down the line of Faith’s throat--with, she noticed, a sexy-times bruise--and shoulder before wandering back to her face. “You’re still an international fugitive, if that makes you feel better.”  
  
Faith caught her looking, tilted her head to the side to show off the bruise and smirked. “Little bit. Maybe I don’t have to start wearing Giles’s hand-me-downs and drinking afternoon tea quite yet.”  
  
The image sent Buffy into a fit of laughter, which sent her into another ouchy place. Her head was still tender. She should really drink some water soon.  
  
“I’m glad it’s you,” she continued once the pounding was merely a kettle drum rather than a jackhammer. “I think the girls will be glad it’s you, too.”  
  
“The ones I didn’t get killed, maybe.” Faith sighed, then shook her head sharply as if throwing the thought away. “I know, I know. Could have been you just as easily. Some of them think I blew it, but most of them... yeah. It’ll be okay.” She lifted her eyes to Buffy’s, reading the clear green intensity of them, then let out a breath that felt as if she’d been holding it for the last three years. “You trusted me with them before, but I guess I kinda told myself that was just ‘cause there wasn’t much choice - crisis of confidence, all that shit. But it wasn’t, was it? You really did - really do - think I have the stones or the brains or whatever for running the crew for you.”  
  
The blonde nodded. “Did and do. You’re strong, you know what it means to fuck up, you know how to survive. Not to mention,” she added, smiling, “your low tolerance for bullshit.”  
  
That startled a fresh laugh out of Faith, one that lit up her face with sudden pleasure, and then she leaned up and kissed Buffy fiercely enough to set them both humming. “Somehow,” she breathed, “I’m not thinkin’ that’s going to make their top ten list of favorite things, but at least it’s somethin’ we can both agree I’m good at.” She hesitated, almost drew back, then kissed Buffy again - more softly, this time, and far more lingeringly. “Giles will back me up, B, and between the two of us we got this covered. You take the time you need to take, do what you gotta do. Took me crashin’ my life and goin’ to jail to get my head straight, so you bummin’ around the world playing Paris Hilton or whatever, I’d call that a step up.”  
  
Her fingers twined a little more tightly with Faith’s. The strange easiness between them was starting to let reality in at the seams. Buffy was still holding it at a distance, brain too fuzzy and driven by basic impulses--ow, sleepy, water please, mmm kisses--to assault her with memories she’d rather avoid at the moment. She’d have to go soon, though, before either or both of them were unable to forget the bloody past they shared.  
  
Still, she grinned. “That’s a great idea. I am totally getting some big sunglasses, a fancy handbag, and a tiny dog to carry in it.”  
  
“And the bathing suit,” Faith teased, though her eyes were lingering on Buffy’s with a weight that went strangely with the humor in her voice, “for driving the boys in Italy crazy.”  
  
“Definitely,” Buffy concurred, feeling the past crowd in like an unwelcome guest at the window. Not the easy-to-stake kind, either. _When is it ever going to be finished?_ she wanted to ask Faith, or maybe Willow or Giles or the Wonderful Wizard of Oz - anyone who could tell her what it was going to take to put the hurt and blood between them to rest. “And to get a great tan. Remember how the sun can be good for things other than making vampire flambe?”  
  
“Vaguely,” Faith told her, and then kissed her cheek again as if to brush the cobwebs of memory away for just another moment of shared stillness. “You better enjoy yourself enough for all of us, B, or I’ll track you down and kick your ass.” She laughed again, quick and sharp, then pressed herself against Buffy in a hug tight enough to creak both their ribs. “Maybe even try out that pink motorcycle, huh?”  
  
Returning the embrace with somewhat fewer pounds per square inch, Buffy swallowed against the sting in her eyes. Bad time to cry. All dehydrated. She stayed still, let the texture of Faith’s skin and the rhythm of her breath lull the tears away.  
  
Finally, Faith let up. Buffy leaned back, her voice gentle. “I need to get some water and a shower before my brain starts a mutiny with my other organs. I’m going to pick up my clothes and try to find my own room before that happens.” Untangling herself from Faith was difficult, and not because of the hangover.  
  
A moment later, she stood mostly dressed, jacket over one arm. “I’ll check in every week or so. Send souvenirs and postcards. I bet I can find a book Giles would swoon for.”  
  
“If you blow off a call or two, no big. We know you can take care of yourself, B.” Faith pulled the sheet over herself, a little act of mercy to make it easier for Buffy to stop her eyes from wandering, and brushed a rough hand through the dark tangles of her hair. She hesitated, then threw out one last peace offering before the chance slipped away. “Want me to pass the news to Giles and company so you can make with the shopping and the packing instead?”  
  
Hand on the door, Buffy Summers turned back towards the room. “Sure, ” she smiled, tender and relieved. “It will take a few days to get everything together, so those who want goodbyes will have plenty of time.” Pausing, her fingers tightened on the doorknob, anxiety rising. It really was time to go.  
  
“Don’t run yourself too ragged, Faith.”  
  
“Don’t worry, B.” Faith flashed a smile that was all brassy confidence, the kind that could take on the world. “I got three years of rest in me. A year or two of crazy busy isn’t gonna kill me before you get back - not with Giles and Red to back me up.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Her grip loosened a little. “I’ll see you around.” Door halfway open, she stopped again for what she hoped was the last time. “You’ll do great, Faith. The Chosen Two, right?”  
  
She closed the door before Faith could smile, or laugh, or do any other damn thing that’d make her feel the need to explain what that could possibly mean anymore.  
  
Maybe by the time she came back, if she had any luck at all, she’d have an answer.

* * *

  
Sunrise found Faith Lehane awake in her empty, rumpled bed and watching the first strands of light unfolding themselves on the ceiling of her cabin. Hut. Whatever. The witch from the Circle who’d set her up in the place a week ago hadn’t exactly been big with the specific so much as with getting away from the potentially dangerous Slayer with a murder rap, so she wasn’t exactly hip to the local lingo for this sort of thing. Most of the girls were racking in the big lodge, sleeping in groups for the psychological comfort of it - they’d gotten used to it in Sunnydale, apparently, and now they didn’t want to stop - but Faith had gotten her own one-room retreat just like Willow had. Maybe it was a special club thing for murderers.  
  
She lay on her back, arms folded behind her head and eyes wide open, watching the slender lines of gold light spreading across the bare wood above her, and the only sound except the soft trill of birdsong was the steady rasp of her own breathing. It should probably have made her feel peaceful or something, but the truth was that all she felt was empty.  
  
Last night she’d driven Buffy Summers to the Cardiff Airport, watched her board the 7:30 to Amsterdam, and felt all the air in the world go with her.  
  
Five years ago,  Faith Lehane would have said all she wanted in the world was to run like hell and never stop. Four and a half years ago, she might have admitted taking Buffy along for the ride would have been all right. Now Buffy was in the wind, running or sabbaticaling or whatever, and she was here in a wood cabin in Wales with the whole world on her shoulders and no chance to follow because... because somewhere along the line Guilt had introduced her to Duty, and Duty had one hell of a choke-hold when it decided to use it. It sure as fuck kept her on a tighter leash than prison ever had.  
  
_Our time is never up, Faith,_ Angel told her in the back of her head. _We pay for everything._  
  
_No shit._ She closed her eyes, blocking out the light for a long minute, and saw green eyes looking back at her. Struggled. Finally pulled in a breath.  
  
Her eyes opened, and she rolled out of the bed with another sharp inhale that filled her lungs to aching. Held it, long enough to grab her jacket and her boots, then threw the door open and stepped out into the open air of the Welsh morning and let it go and took in another that burned in her chest but that was good, that was all right because she was breathing again. Buffy was running free, and she was here, and she was breathing.  
  
The mad, wild rush of energy started somewhere in the soles of her boots and danced out until it flared from the strands of her hair, until she felt like she was dancing on the balls of her feet every time she bounced, and then she was jogging and she knew exactly what she was going to do - exactly what she needed to do. It was two hundred yards to the big lodge, ten steps down to the basement with the ping pong table where the bedrooms split off to either side, and she hammered each door hard in turn, hard enough to wake the dead. It took three minutes for the girls to tumble out, most in their P.J.s with weapons in hand, which was _way_ too long but she’d deal with that later because right now there were more important things to do.  
  
“Get dressed,” she told them, eyes burning almost gold in the sunlight catching her face. “Comfortable shoes. Front steps. Ten minutes.”  
  
Nobody argued or asked why - mostly they were still asleep on their feet. She left the ones who were just confused to sort out the rest of them, bounded back up the stairs and took off for Willow’s cabin at a clip that got her there in four minutes flat despite the distance.  
  
Kennedy answered the door in one of Willow’s shirts, looking rumpled. “Faith,” she blinked, obviously fumbling for words, “hi.”  
  
“Grab your clothes. Big lodge, five minutes. Better hustle,” Faith observed, then turned away. Behind her, she heard Kennedy swear and the thump of a closet being thrown open. Good. That was good. She was grinning now, manic and stupid and alive, and she gave herself a leisurely six minutes to stroll back to the lodge. Kennedy, dressed in jeans and what looked like it might have been a halter top before the lace police had jumped it in a dark alley, whipped past her at full tilt with a minute to spare.  
  
That left eleven girls in varying states of wakefulness standing in front of the lodge in whatever clothes had seemed handy, all still blinking sleep from their eyes - ten Slayers and Dawn Summers. The whole future, right there in front of her.  
  
Faith Lehane got her smile under control, filled her lungs with another breath of air, and looked each one of them in the eye in turn until she had their attention. Held it in the palm of her hand, feeling the weight of it, then squared her shoulders and let them feel the fire in her voice. “Welcome to the rest of our lives, people. We’ve had a week and a half to sleep it off and get it out of our systems - we’re alive, we survived. You survived.” She let that hang in the air for a few more seconds. “Now we start thinking about what’s next. Which means that the _first_ thing we do is wake the fuck up.”  
  
She threw a hand out, pointing to the low clump of trees on the hill that rolled up to meet the horizon. Behind it, the sun was finally breaking loose of the earth and headed for the sky. “I’m going that way, ladies. Try to keep up.”  
  
They stared. She grinned. Their eyes widened. She didn’t wait for them to open their mouths, because then there’d be complaining and confusion and God knew what else. Instead, she did the simple, easy thing you do to get predators in motion - she took off. After a few seconds, she heard the thunder of their feet behind her and knew that for at least the next five miles or so, she had them.  
  
She ran, and they ran with her.


End file.
